Don’t Let Me Give You a Title
There’s a bearded man stretched naked across the foyer floor
and you realize you’ve reached a place you’ve only read about
in weird fiction and the biographies of the mad
You move smoothly, easily
among these discharged minds
their walls of blood and puke
Coke on every mirror
Pills in every couch
It’s not a party here until somebody’s dead
Platypus women and weasel men
dressed not fashionably, nor like rejects
dressed like they can’t quite clothe themselves at all
match their sense with their socks
Separate from society, they have no need to rebel
Too close to the source of empathy
they’ve lost the ability to sense
any mind but their own
collective
unconsciousness
A lesser extrovert would be terrified
but you feel more you than ever:
this is a fantasy you never understood you had
you hold your liquor
and your water
long after your host is past passing
Here, style and grace
the only virtues you’ve known
are the only measure of a man
Leave a Reply